To be like Blue — and maybe Lao Tzu, too. A summer-weary gardener finds contentment through his laid-back flat-coated retriever and an ancient philosopher
by Jim Dodson | illustration by Gerry O’Neill

At the start of every summer, I vow to my wife, Wendy, that this will be the year I finally make peace with the heat and humidity of my least favorite season.

And every year, I fail miserably.

By Wendy’s birthday in mid-July, I’ve turned into a grumpy gardener who prays for rain that never arrives and shakes his fist at broiling, sunny skies. Even my golf game wilts.

This summer, however, I took a different approach.

I decided to be like Blue. And maybe Lao Tzu, too.

Blue is my dog, a big, black, super-friendly, 65-pound flat-coated retriever with golden eyes, a thoroughly laid-back disposition and a blue-tipped tongue. Lao Tzu, of course, is the sixth-century Chinese philosopher credited with writing the Tao Te Ching, the foundational text of Taoism. In college a million years ago, I took a course in Eastern religions and developed a shine to the old guy’s wise sayings, as have philosophers and spiritual teachers across the ages. It was Lao Tzu who pointed out that “a journey of a thousand miles begins with one step,” a catchphrase appropriated by every tourism flack since the Middle Ages.

My favorite Lao Tzu aphorism advises, “Be content with what you have; rejoice in the way things are. When you realize there is nothing lacking, the whole world belongs to you.”

Blue seems to embody these words like no other four-legged creature I’ve ever known except one — my late dog Mulligan. I fondly called her “Miss Mully.”

Three years ago, at the end of another blazing hot summer, Wendy and I said a tearful goodbye to Mully, our soulful flat-coated retriever. She was 17 and failing fast. Our hearts ached as we watched her take one last slow circuit around the back garden before lying down at my feet and placing her noble head on my shoe. Putting her down was maybe the toughest thing I’ve ever had to do. She truly was this man’s best friend.

As that October arrived, a month that typically brings cool relief and nice surprises, I was still deep in grief. Wendy and I were having a drink in the same back garden, watching the first golden leaves of autumn drift to the ground. She asked me how I was doing.

“Not great,” I admitted. “I hate to think I’ll never have another dog like Mully.”

We have other rescued critters in our home, including a sweet, old Staffordshire pit bull named Gracie, a spunky, young border collie-spaniel mix named Winnie, and a mischievous calico cat named Juno that Wendy found as a week-old kitten abandoned in the Walmart parking lot. I love them all — even if they seem to love Wendy more than me. 

As usual, like Lao Tzu, Wendy was one step ahead of me.

She tapped her smartphone and handed it to me. “How about this dog?”

It was a photograph of a young Mully from our adventuring days together. Or so I thought until Wendy shook her head.

“It’s not Mully. This is a young male from Tennessee. Last night I typed ‘flat-coated retriever’ into my search bar and he magically appeared. Can you believe it? He could be her twin brother.”

She explained that he was rescued by an all-volunteer group called Critter Cavalry based in Franklin, Tennessee. The resemblance to Miss Mully was truly incredible, almost spooky.

“As it happens,” Wendy casually added, “he’s going to be passing through Western Virginia two nights from now in case you would like to give this big fella a new home.”

I asked how she knew this.

“Because I got in touch with Critter Cavalry, paid the adoption fee and we’ve been cleared by our vet to get him.” She added that several times a month the organization transports rescued dogs to qualified new owners up and down the East Coast.
She smiled and added, “He’s your October surprise. I think Mully sent him to take care of you.” 

We drove up to Fancy Gap, Virginia, that Friday evening and, as instructed to do for the rendezvous, parked behind a fast-food restaurant off the interstate to await the delivery. I joked that it felt like we were part of an undercover stakeout or waiting for an illicit drug delivery.

Other cars soon pulled in around us. Eventually, a tall, white van with big, purple dog paws on its side rolled up and folks began getting out of the automobiles and heading toward it. Every one of them was smiling with anticipation. We were, too.

There must have been two dozen dogs of every size and breed traveling in neatly stacked crates, all headed to forever homes. Our big, black fella was one of the last to exit the van.

He climbed out of the van and calmly looked at me with glimmering, golden eyes. I let him sniff my hand. He licked it. “He has a blue-tipped tongue,” Wendy pointed out. So, we named him Blue.

The first thing Blue did in Wendy’s car was take a giant poop on her back seat. We joked that it was a long ride from Tennessee without bathroom breaks and gave him a drink of cool bottled water during the clean-up stop.

We weren’t back on the road for more than five minutes when Blue climbed forward onto the middle console and laid his head on my right thigh.

It stayed there all the way home.

Blue turned out to be an extraordinary dog. He leads our morning walks and sleeps on the floor directly beside me. Nothing rattles him. He remains cool and calm in every situation, happily responding with his golden eyes shining. He rarely barks except when he suddenly rolls joyfully around on the floor, yipping with childlike glee at finding his forever home. He loves big hugs and lets life flow past with the ease of an ancient Chinese philosopher.

Methinks Lao Tzu would love Blue — for he seems to realize nothing is lacking; the whole world belongs to him.

As our journey of a thousand miles begins, Blue probably has no idea that he’s become both my best pal and my four-legged teacher. This past summer brought record drought and punishing heat waves, during which our air conditioning even went kaput.

But, vowing to “Be like Blue,” I took it all in stride — better than ever, in fact.

I like to think Miss Mully would be pleased.  

This article originally appeared in the October 2026 issue of WALTER Magazine.